Brotherly Love
by alltimedemigod
Summary: A look into the relationship of Mycroft and Sherlock.


[Okay. I am really new to writing fanfiction, but I just really wanted to try it out. Please review. Let me know what I did wrong and/or let me know if I did anything you liked. Thanks n_n]

Brotherly "Love"

Mycroft stood there speechless. He had so much going through his head that he couldn't utter a proper sentence. He just studied his younger brother lying in the hospital bed. He was thin, so thin. He was practically a skeleton with a thin sheet of pale skin stretched tightly over his gangly figure. His long arms were riddled with scars. Scars where he sliced with the razor blade. Scars where the needle injected the cocaine. Mycroft cringed at those thoughts, thoughts that Sherlock of only nineteen was hurt and tormented enough to take drugs... Mycroft couldn't help but feel guilty. He had left Sherlock to go to Uni two years ago, and in those two years Sherlock had practically destroyed himself. His mind swam in what ifs like:

What if I had stayed with Sherlock? What if I had been there for him? Or the thought the gave Mycroft chills, What if I hadn't found him last night?

Mycroft will never forget what Sherlock looked like when he found him the previous night. Sherlock's pale, thin body bleeding and barely breathing on the bathroom floor.

Why hadn't I noticed any signs before?! Mycroft thought as he looked at Sherlock's sunken in eye sockets, the dark circles, and the even more prominent than usual cheek bones. Why aren't I a better brother?! Mycroft's frustration with himself brought tears to his eyes. He sunk in the chair next to Sherlock's hospital bed. He pressed the palms of his hands into his eyes, and wept silently.

He is only interrupted by a nurse coming into to check Sherlock's vitals.

"Can I get you anything?" you can here the pity in her voice as she politely asks Mycroft.

"Can you just tell me... Can you just tell me that he will be okay?" Mycroft stifles back tears.

The nurse sets a hand on Mycroft's shoulder. "I know how badly you want to here that, but we can't say for sure..."

Mycroft swallows the lump in his throat, unable to say any more.

"I really am sorry, Mr. Holmes." Mycroft hates fake apologies, (he's received so many over the years), but this small apology, from a nurse Mycroft doesn't even know the name of, was genuine.

A few hours passed and a doctor, a man about Mycroft's mothers age, stepped into the room.

"Hi," the man said with a with a warm smile "Im Doctor Lewis, but you can call me Aaron. What's your name?"

"Nice to meet you Aaron, my name is Mycroft." The elder Holmes was always well mannered, so he stuck his hand out.

Aaron shook it with a firm grip. "Now, Mycroft, may I ask your relation to this young man?"

"Sherlock is my brother."

"Right, have you informed your parents of your brother's... state?"

Mycroft looked down and paused before he spoke,"My father is dead, and my mom... My mom can't be bothered at this time."

"Can't be bothered? I'm fairly sure your mother would like to know that Sherlock over dosed on drugs not 12 hours ago."

"She's dying!" Mycroft shouted, " She's at home and she's comfortable but any breath of hers could be her last..."

Aaron cleared his throat,"I am sorry to hear that, I understand."

Mycroft says nothing.

"According to these tests, the drugs will not have any permanent side affects as long as he stays off of them, he will be okay; however, should Sherlock resume his addiction I'm afraid that that won't be the case. He should be waking up soon. When he does will you let us know so we can start a detox?"

Mycroft nods.

"He'll be fine. He just needs your help." And with that, Aaron left.

Mycroft just sat there. He counted Sherlocks breaths. In and out.

After about 30 minutes, Sherlock's eyelids began to flutter. Mycroft sat up in his chair bit straighter in anticipation. Sherlock opened his eyes all the way. He clenched and I clenched his fists, taking in his surroundings. Then he turned to Mycroft.

"Get out." Sherlock spat in a low raspy voice.

"Excuse me?" Mycroft says bewildered.

"I said, get out."

"You know, you could say 'thank you'!" Mycroft retorts rather annoyed.

"For what?" Sherlock says scrunching up his face in pain as he sits up.

"I don't know, maybe for saving your life?"

"Did it ever cross your mind that I didn't want to be saved, that I wanted to die?"

Mycroft is, again, rendered speechless. Silence lingers in the room.

Mycroft finally manages to speak, it comes out as nothing more than a whisper, "I'm just trying to help you."

"I don't want your help!" Sherlock declares coldly.

The words cut through Mycroft like a knife. He feels tears pushing to escape but he holds them back.

"Sherlock please, I'm your brother. I'm sorry that I haven't been able to there for you for the past two years but, I'm here now, and I am not going to let you ruin yourself."

Sherlock looks at Mycroft. He looks like he wants to say something but doesn't. Both the brothers remain still, cold as ice. Mycroft leaves his brothers cold stare in fear that if he stayed longer, he would've broken and wept in front of Sherlock. Mycroft never cried in front of Sherlock. Ever. He tried to be a strong father figure for Sherlock,. He never showed Sherlock his weaknesses.

Mycroft always had Sherlock's best interest in mind, but sometimes his good intentions weren't what Sherlock wanted. Sherlock wanted a brother that felt, a brother that wasn't "perfect". Sherlock wanted to see his brother act human, see him cry...

Sherlock looked up to Mycroft, he would never admit it, but he did. Whenever Sherlock felt like crying, or really any emotion for that matter, he got angry at himself. Why aren't I like Mycroft? Why am I so weak? He would think to himself.

Mycroft made his way hastily through the brightly lit hallways of the hospital, holding back tears. He informs the nurses at the front desk of Sherlock's awakening. He says that he wont be back today, but he will be eventually.

He barely makes it to his car before the tears start flowing from his eyes. "Did it ever cross your mind that I didn't want to be saved, that I wanted to die?" He played the conversation over in his head on his way back to the Holmes Mansion.

He parked his car, headed inside, and up the steps to his mothers room.

"Mycroft , I didn't know you were coming into visit." she said.

Mycroft stopped in the door way at her words. Mycroft had come home two days ago and he had had many conversations with her before this one. She was getting worse: remembering less, aching more.

"Hello mother."

"What is it dearest? Is everything all right?"

"Yes. Everything is fine." Mycroft doesn't want her worrying about Sherlock.

"Where's Sherlock, I haven't seen him at all since last night."

Mycroft hung his head for a moment before answering. "He's out with some friends. He should be home soon though." Mycroft put on fake smile, hoping that she doesn't remember that Sherlock doesn't have any friends.

"Oh, do send him in when he gets back, would you?"

"Of course." Mycroft chokes out before he quickly exits the room, feeling tears coming back. He makes it to his old bedroom before falling into uncontrollable sobs. He flops on his bed and lets everything out. He cries out his sadness for his mother, his frustration and pain for sherlock, and his guilt.

Mycroft is awoken the next morning by the sound of a violin. Violin? What? He thought as he walked down the hallway towards the noise. His heart nearly stopped beating at what he saw next.  
"Sherlock?! What the heck are you doing out of the hospital? Surely they didn't release you already!" Mycroft shouted.

Sherlock set down his violin and turned to face Mycroft.

"I believe people normally say hello." Sherlock said bluntly.

"Yes, because you are so fond of what normal people do.. Answer my question. What are you doing out of the hospital?!"

"I no longer saw the need for me to be there, so I left."

"You left? Sherlock you can't just leave a hospital whenever you feel like it. They have to make sure you are well again and then they release you. You don't just leave." Mycroft was becoming frustrated again.

"Well I did leave," Sherlock said as stood up walking towards the door "and I'm-"  
Sherlock stumbled a bit and grabbed the door frame "fine. I am perfectly fine and do not need anyone to look after me."

"No, Sherlock, you are obviously not fine." Mycroft said as he attempted to steady Sherlock. Sherlock waved off Mycroft's help. "Why can't you accept my help, Sherlock? I just want you to be well."

Sherlock says nothing, he does not reveal any emotions. He refrains from telling his elder brother that he wants nothing more than his help and to hear him say 'I love you'. He refrains from saying that all he strives for is his approval.

"Please, you need to eat and rest. I will not lose you."

Sherlock turns to leave, walking swiftly but unsteadily because Mycroft is right. Sherlock hasn't eaten anything in three days (and hasn't had a proper meal in probably months), and hasn't slept in longer than that.

"She's dying, Sherlock."

Sherlock stops dead in his tracks, he is unable to face his brother, but he stops and listens.

"I am not going to lose you both."

"I will eat." is all Sherlock says, and it's enough for Mycroft.

It happens late that night, Mycroft comes in to give her her medication, and she breathes her last. Mycroft was happy that her suffering was over, but nothing softened the sorrow deep in his heart. Mycroft's father was a drunk, and violent, and was never there; so she was the only one he looked up to as a child. Seeing her still body, not breathing, made him realize that now, he is all Sherlock has. He realized that no matter what, Sherlock was his responsibility.

Mycroft walks downstairs to Sherlock's bedroom. He knocks quietly on the door. No answer.

"Sherlock?" Mycroft whispered as he entered the room. The younger Holmes lay fast asleep on the bed. Mycroft smiles at the fact that Sherlock is actually doing something for the better of his health. Mycroft lingers in the room, watching Sherlock's chest rise and fall. He watched like he was afraid Sherlock might just stop breathing if he left. He left reluctantly, knowing that if he was going to help Sherlock, he needed to be at his best.

The road to Sherlock's recovery was not easy. He would have fits, say that he needed the drugs. That he needed just a little. He would lash out in violence or just yell at the first person he saw, which was usually Mycroft or the Butler. Mycroft wasn't shocked by most of his brother's behavior, he expected withdrawal symptoms, but one day when he came to Sherlock's room to find him crying, he really didn't know what to do. He tried to comfort him, but he didn't know what his brother was upset about or what he needed because he had never really seen his brother cry.

Later Sherlock explained that nothing was wrong, and it was just "irrational emotions that meant nothing at all". Mycroft didn't believe him but didn't pry. It just reminded Mycroft that Sherlock was human. He felt irrational things.

"What's this?" Mycroft asked Sherlock as he held up a business card.

"I assisted an obviously incompetent cop today. He gave me his card."

"D.I. Lestrade, hmm. Are you going to call him?"

"No. Calling him would be pointless. I have no formal education, and I am not looking for a job. It would simply waste both of our time."

"Sherlock, you need something to occupy your mind. You get in trouble when you get bored."

Sherlock sighs dramatically.

"Sherlock, call him."

"I prefer to text."

"Fine." Mycroft hands Sherlock the card.  
"Can you hand me my phone?" Sherlock doesn't move at all.

Mycroft rolls his eyes, "Where is it?"

"Jacket." Sherlock replies curtly.

Mycroft sighs, "I don't know why I am surprised anymore. No Sherlock."

Sherlock quirks a brow, and pulls out his phone from his inside jacket pocket. He has text from the D.I.

"That D.I. Lestrade wants my help on a case."


End file.
